


Another Day, Another Dollar

by PFDiva



Category: Wolf 359 (podcast)
Genre: Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, Mutilation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PFDiva/pseuds/PFDiva
Summary: Rachel finds Mr. Cutter in her office again, and this time things go more her way.





	Another Day, Another Dollar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this immediately after listening to the mini-episode "Meanwhile," so if some details are wrong, I don't hecking care. That said, if extra tags or trigger warnings are necessary, please DO let me know--I know I'm not always the greatest judge of these things.

Rachel was unpleasantly unsurprised to find Mr. Cutter in her office, sitting in her chair. Again.

"Rachel!" he said, gushing as if he was excited to see her.

Rachel's day had been truly unpleasant. She'd ruined dinner last night, went to bed late trying to salvage something for lunch today, woke up late and to five crises that urgently needed her (Only they didn't really need her, they just needed someone to hold their hands while they engaged their higher cognitive functions), forgot her sad excuse for lunch at home, and she still hadn't had lunch because who had the time to buy food when everything was falling apart?

And now Mr. Cutter wanted something unreasonable.

"What can I do for you, sir," Rachel said, less a question and more a demand.

"Well, you see," he began, and Rachel was once again struck by how unpleasant the disconnect between what he sounded like and what he looked like.

Mr. Cutter was a very handsome man. He had the sort of ambiguously brown features that could have been dark-skinned latine or mid-ranged middle eastern, maybe light-skinned indian. His hair curled when it got long enough, when it was damp from him swimming in the in-house pool as he sometimes did. He had a broad build, but he was lean and short. Shorter than Rachel, honestly, but Rachel's heritage combined a pair of people who were each over six feet tall and she wore heels, so most people were shorter than her.

Mr. Cutter chuckled, and Rachel came back to herself with an unpleasant shock. Mr. Cutter was sitting on her desk now, closer than he'd been. _She hadn't been listening._ She'd gotten distracted looking at him. She didn't know what he wanted. And from the glint in his eyes, he knew it.

Terror pounded through Rachel's veins before turning into anger. She hated this man. She hated the man, her job, everything. She could do better than this. She could do _his_ job better than him, if she were honest, and she was the holder of all his dirty secrets. She knew how to make the bodies go away.

Anger, she knew what to do with.

Rachel smiled. Mr. Cutter's brows bounced up in an amused sort of surprise as Rachel closed the distance between them.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Cutter. I didn't catch that last part. Could you say it again, please?"

He tsked at her like she was a child, "Rachel, you seem distracted. You should take a vacation, you know."

And let him have time to figure out who could replace her?

Never.

Next thing she knew, Rachel had the joy of plunging her sharpest pair of scissors into Mr. Cutter's eye. He screamed, flailing back and away, but he only managed to throw himself off the desk and onto the floor.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Cutter?" Rachel asked, in her most pleasant voice, bending down to cut the tendons in his ankles while he thrashed and kicked.

"It's very difficult to understand you right now, Mr. Cutter," Rachel said, continuing with her pleasant, dealing-with-morons-I-can't-anger voice, "If you could slow down and speak more clearly, that'd be incredibly helpful."

She was cutting the tendons in his knees now, so she certainly wasn't helpful.

When she'd eliminated his ability to escape, she sawed through the tendons in his arms, aware that at some point, her weapon had turned into a beautiful (if bloodied) knife with an intricate handle design. She kept going.

Once Mr. Cutter was helpless and bleeding under her, Rachel turned him over with a sweet smile, ignoring his screams for security, his cursing and creative threats, "I'm sorry, Mr. Cutter. I won't be able to assist you right now. Perhaps if you gave me a month?"

She carved open his belly and his entrails spilled out, steaming in the air conditioning-cool air. Miles of intestines, which she had to methodically sort through, feeling for lumps and irregularities.

"We want you to be healthy, Mr. Cutter. Don't we?" She turned to look at the gathered security guards and investors, idly watching from the door. At least five. Possibly fifteen? How could they all fit in that one doorway? But they managed it, somehow or another. They nodded agreement with her words.

Rachel cut through his ribs, her knife wonderfully powerful. She had to be careful not to puncture his organs. Here, a kidney, there his liver, both of his lungs, expanding and contracting with each whining, wheezing breath he took.  His heart, a surprisingly heavy chunk of bloody meat in his chest.

His shrieks had dissolved into desperate, keening whines. He was annoying her so much. With careful deliberation, Rachel looped Mr. Cutter's intestines around his neck, pulling tight. The intestines popped, splattering her with goo and blood, but still he keened. There was a low chanting behind her, rhythmic and synchronized with Mr. Cutter's whines.

Rachel abruptly realized that the noise sounded familiar, and immediately on the heels of that revelation came wakefulness.

She was in bed at home, her alarm blaring. She glared at it and turned it off before checking her phone.

No phone calls and six emails.

Nothing urgent.

Nothing gone wrong.

She'd overslept by about 15 minutes, but it wasn't anything tragic because she _hadn't_ actually burned dinner last night. She had a wonderful lunch planned.

Rachel closed her eyes and savored the memory of Mr. Cutter's bloody organs in her hands. The intestines had felt rather like cooked sausage, which made sense considering what sausage casings were made of...They'd been warm.

After a few moments' fantasy, Rachel sighed and pushed aside her blankets to get up for work. It was just a fantasy, one she could never indulge. Rachel didn't bring her nice knives to work, and even if she did, Mr. Cutter was almost definitely fast enough and strong enough to overpower her.

But it had been a nice dream.


End file.
